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stumble into the sun

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Hajime pushes in slowly, incrementally, and fights to hold himself still when Oikawa’s breath hitches.

“Fuck,” he mutters into the overwarm skin of Oikawa’s knee as heels dig into Hajime’s back. There’s just a lot of Oikawa, body-wise, slung over Hajime's shoulders, panting shakily in his sheets, a slick, mind-numbing heat around his cock. “You good?”

“Wait,” Oikawa says, breathing stubbornly, “wait, wait.” His eyes are glassy, fixed on some point away and behind Hajime’s hunched shoulder.

“Of course, yeah, yeah,” Hajime replies, pressing his mouth again to the thin-skinned side of Oikawa’s knee. He twists his wrist a bit as he pulls at Oikawa’s cock, thumb swiping under the head. They’ve only done this a few times, enough to know it can be really, really, good, if not quite enough to get it there every time. It's been slow going tonight, Oikawa tense and unfocused, and Hajime presses with the fingers of his other hand, the one wrapped around Oikawa’s thigh. The muscle feels warm, quaking.

“What do you want me to—” Oikawa clenches, maybe involuntarily, and Hajime breaks off with a groan, holding himself back from the edge with the tips of his damn fingers. “What do you need me to do, what can I—”

“Talk, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says, demanding, almost snappish, the tone that means he wishes he didn't have to ask. His voice sounds rough. “Distract me.”

“Yeah,” Hajime pants, “fuck, sure. Have you— have you done your lit homework for Friday, I can't figure out—”

“Oh my god, Iwa-chan, I didn't mean talk about school,” Oikawa says, laughing unevenly, and Iwaizumi muffles another groan as he slides a little further into that tight heat. He could spend the rest of his life like this, staring at the heavy red flush spreading down Oikawa’s chest, the hazy pleasure in his eyes, fucking into him as fast or slow as he could, filling him with his cock, making Oikawa look like some culmination of every wet dream he’s had since seventh grade, and god he loves him, he loves fucking him, he loves--

Yes,” Oikawa groans, bites out, as Hajime realizes he’s been speaking out loud. One of Oikawa’s hands is digging into his hair. “Keep going.

Happily. “You feel so good,” Hajime pants, one hand still working Oikawa’s leaking cock, hips shifting further forward, still not all the way inside Oikawa, but close, so close. He’s never paid less attention to the words coming out of his own mouth. “You—fuck, you feel amazing, you're so hot, you're, you're beautiful, you're so good,” He’s deeper, he can still go deeper, Oikawa is moaning in the back of his throat like Hajime is dragging it out of him, “You're so good, Tooru, such a good job, you take my cock so well, so—”

Oikawa comes. It's incredible. Hajime stops trying to hold on. When he pulls out, thumps down to the left of the wet spot and wheezes happily, Oikawa has rolled over and buried his face in his hands. He’s red to the tips of his ears.

“Holy shit,” Hajime says.

“Oh my god,” Oikawa says.

So, really, it's mostly on accident that they discover Oikawa gets off on being complimented.

 


 

Hajime has to wait about a week before he manages to get Hanamaki and Matsukawa alone in the changing rooms. Oikawa is still on the court lecturing Kyoutani about deodorant and the proper application thereof, you filthy animal, so Hajime figures he’s got a couple minutes.

“So,” he says, as he peels off his uniform shirt, letting it fall on top of his gym bag. “Have you guys ever heard of like, someone being turned on by people saying nice things to them?”

Matsukawa slams his locker shut. “Oh my god,” he says.

Hajime ignores him. He’s trying not to sound worried. “Like, you know, being told they’re—”

Matsukawa has his hands up in the air, like he doesn’t want to touch or be touched by anything that’s happening right now. “Oh my god,” he repeats, tone flat. “Oh my god.”

“How dare you,” Hanamaki says, sitting up from where he’d been lying on the bench between them.

“Hey—” Hajime starts, feeling a little persecuted here.

“Oh my god.” Matsukawa’s hands are still in the air.

“You sick fucks.” Hanamaki says, eyes narrowed. He hasn’t got pants on. Matsukawa is wandering back and forth in front of the lockers.

“Oh my god,” he says again.

Hajime’s voice drops into a growl. Hanamaki has now put a hand to his breast, as if in horror. “Okay, I haven’t even—”

“In our own house,” Hanamaki hisses, looking betrayed. Matsukawa is headed towards the exit, still declaiming. No one has a shirt on.

“Oh my god.” Matsukawa is nearly out the door. Hanamaki is moving to join him. “Oh my god?”

“Oh my god,” Hanamaki agrees as he backs out of the door, eyes locked to Hajime’s. He’s wearing, in sum, briefs and gym socks. He’s still pointing accusingly when the door swings shut, leaving Hajime standing alone next to the piles of their uniforms.

“Oh my god!” echoes from the hallway. Hajime punches a locker.

 


 

They work their way up to it. It takes a couple tries. Oikawa’s embarrassment about the whole thing is evergreen, despite how obviously he loves it, has started to crave it now that they both know it’s something that can be given. He’ll demand Hajime start talking, face red, and then grin wide and flashy and meet every bit of praise with a wry acknowledgement of his own genius at life, at love, at taking dick. He’s scared, Hajime realizes. It’s not much of a surprise once he understands. Oikawa’s scared of a lot of things, and he’ll bullshit his way through every one of them, given the opportunity.

The first time Hajime presses a hand over Oikawa’s mouth and insists that he’s a good person, and that Hajime loves him, and that Hajime has never in his life loved anyone more, it’s a revelation. Skies open. Seas part. Oikawa’s entire body turns a flaming hot pink, and he comes inside Hajime like he never had a choice.

And so now, one evening when Oikawa’s parents aren’t home, having left for a weekend in Tokyo with a stern warning to wash the damn sheets this time (Oikawa takes it in stride, Hajime does not), Hajime kneels on Oikawa’s bed and tugs at Oikawa’s third-best school tie, the bulk of the fabric clenched in one fist.

He still feels weird, on occasion, about them fucking in Oikawa’s bedroom. Hajime has more childhood memories here than in his own house, and there’s something about having sex where Oikawa’s posters (one each of the past five Olympic teams), his dirty laundry (the stretched-out Disneyland Paris shirt on top a gift from his sister in grade school), and his desk chair (Hajime wiped a booger on the underside when he was 8 and still doesn’t know if Oikawa saw) can seem them that makes him feel like he’s overstepping somehow.

Of course, Oikawa’s bedroom is also where they would sleep together, under the dinosaur covers, when they were six years old and coming down with the same flu, and where they kissed for the first time, hesitantly, terrified of screwing up something they couldn’t conceive of living without. Oikawa had told him he loved him while wearing a stretched-out Disneyland Paris shirt, and Hajime had loved him back.

So, maybe there’s nothing left to overstep.

“You’re sure about this, right?”

Oikawa sits across the bed from him, leaning against the headboard. He’s watching Hajime carefully. When their eyes meet, he grins with an intent to dazzle.

“Of course I am, Iwa-chan,” he sing-songs. He sits with his legs crossed, gripping his ankles. Hajime watches his hands. “Who wouldn’t want their handsome boyfriend to pay them compliments all night long?”

His knuckles are pale. Hajime meets his eyes again, frowns. “I mean it, asshole. I’m not doing this unless you really, actually want it.”

He waits, patiently, as the grin slides from Oikawa’s face. In its absence he’s red-faced and wary, breath audible from his mouth. Like he’s estimating odds. It’s a glimpse not even Hajime gets very often, and his grip tightens on the tie.

“I want it,” Oikawa says, voice steadier than Hajime had expected. “Just—tie my hands, too. Don’t let me touch you.”

Hajime’s eyebrows rise. “Yeah?” It's not something they've really done before. Hajime wouldn't have ever thought to bring it up.

Oikawa nods tightly. “Yeah. I'll kick you if we need to stop.”

And he’ll be happy to do it, too. Hajime finds himself nodding now, and the image of Oikawa, tall, grinning, any-girl-he-wants Oikawa, tied and gagged with Hajime’s hands on his face is—

Hajime scrambles off the bed to grab another tie. Oikawa huffs a quiet laugh behind him.

“Here,” he says, kneeling on the bed again with Oikawa’s second-best school tie in his hands. “Front or back.” His cock is starting to fill. Oikawa’s is too, lying flushed between his thighs.

Oikawa chews his lip. “Back,” he says, after a moment, and twists so Hajime can get to the low dip of his spine, just above his ass, where he’s crossed his wrists. Hajime loops the tie around and knots it loosely. He shoves another pillow behind Oikawa’s back for good measure.

“Comfortable?” he asks as Oikawa leans back. A nod. “Okay, I'm going to— I'm gonna gag you now.”

The room seems to get hotter at the word. Oikawa’s tongue darts out, wets his lips. His eyes are fixed on the remaining tie held in Hajime’s fist. He nods again. Hajime’s cock pulses.

He leans forward slowly, gaze darting from Oikawa’s dark eyes to bob of his throat, like he’s a horse to keep from bolting. His hands reach out, the end of the tie trailing across Oikawa’s collarbone. One thumb brushes the shell of Oikawa’s ear. He can feel Oikawa’s hot breath against his jaw.

The tie fits neatly between his teeth, and Hajime slides a hand over one red-flushed cheek when he's pulled it tight and knotted it carefully. Oikawa exhales roughly through his nose. Hajime isn't sure when Oikawa closed his eyes.

He sits back on his heels.

Oikawa looks like— Hajime doesn’t know what do with what Oikawa looks like. His eyes are still screwed shut, his chest heaving and nostrils flared as the flush creeps down his neck, across his chest. His skin is saturated with it, like if Hajime put a hand to his collar it’d come away red. The tie digs into his cheeks. His legs are still crossed at the ankle, leaving his cock, dark red and rising towards his navel, on display. It’s always been a small mystery to Hajime, what parts of himself Oikawa will show and what parts he’ll hide.

He’d had things he wanted to say. He can’t remember them now.

“Oikawa—” No. “Tooru—” Yes. A muscle flutters in Oikawa’s jaw. “When you feel asleep in history class on Tuesday, I didn’t wake you up because I was too busy watching you sleep.”

Oikawa’s eyes open wide, his gaze flashing up to Hajime’s. There’s a line between his eyebrows, like this isn’t quite what he was expecting. Hajime doesn’t have an explanation for him.

“The light was in your hair,” Hajime says. He shuffles forward again, his knees nearly touching Oikawa’s curling toes. “I could see every one of your eyelashes. Matsukawa gave me so much shit for it, but you were so beautiful, Tooru. I almost got kicked out of class, but fuck. You’re— you’re beautiful like real people aren’t supposed to be beautiful. Your cheek was scrunched up against your arm—” he brings one hand up to the offending cheek, and it’s as warm as he’d thought. Oikawa doesn’t flinch away, but he shuts his eyes again, exhales shakily. “—and you looked like something I must have dreamed up, because you couldn’t be that beautiful and still be in love with me.”

He presses a kiss just below Oikawa’s closed eye. The skin is warm and damp, and Oikawa makes an halting noise around the gag.

“You deserve me, you know,” Hajime says, his face close to Oikawa’s. There’s no other noise in the world except Oikawa’s raggedy breathing, his fingers curling against the pillows behind his back. “You—ha, you probably deserve even more than me, but you’re a good person, Tooru. You’re loyal. You’re kind when it matters. You care so much about the team, and about me, and about your future, and—”

Hajime hadn’t realized how much of this he’d been waiting to say. His temple is brushing Oikawa’s, and he shifts until he can get a hand around the warm back of Oikawa’s neck and press their foreheads together. Oikawa won’t open his eyes. Hajime can feel the tension in the tendons of his neck.

“You’re the hardest worker I’ve ever met,” he says, and draws his other hand down Oikawa’s chest. The muscle of his stomach jumps under Hajime’s touch. “You deserve every win we’ve gotten. You deserve every trophy you’ve gotten. Fuck, Tooru, you deserve to make the national team and go to the Olympics and kick Ushijima’s ass and to be happy— Tooru, you deserve to be happy, and I love you, I’ve loved you as long as I’ve known you, and—”

A foot hits his thigh.

Hajime rears back, heart sinking. Oikawa is glaring at him over the gag, cheeks flushed and wet with tears. His shoulders are tense from pulling at the tie around his wrists.

“Fuck,” Hajime says, then, “Sorry, shit, let me—”

He frees Oikawa’s hands, reaching behind his back, and Oikawa gets to the gag before he can. He pulls the tie down around his neck then grabs Hajime by the face. Hajime finds himself very, very close to Oikawa.

“Kiss me,” Oikawa says, snarls, with tear tracks shining down his cheeks, “Kiss me, then fuck me, and don’t stop talking.”

Oikawa’s face is red and furious and furiously turned on. Hajime can’t see anything except the dark of his eyes and the curl of his lips and the sharp glint of a tooth behind. Hajime thinks this must be something like staring into the sun. Hajime thinks he must be a fucking dumbass for falling in love.

Well, what can you do.

“You got it,” he grins, and shoves forward.

Their mouths meet as Oikawa hits the pillows, grabbing at Hajime’s hair like he wants it to hurt, the bastard, and the press of Oikawa’s tongue is near to desperate. He arches against Hajime, moaning into his mouth when Hajime rolls his hips, sliding their cocks together, and god he’s hard. They’re both hard, Oikawa’s shaft slick with precome when he finally gets a hand between them, and Hajime could come like this, he absolutely could.

He’s panting into the side of Oikawa’s neck, biting at the sweat-slick skin as he moves harder, again, and Oikawa digs sharp fingers into his scalp. “I wasn’t—” Oikawa gasps, bucking up when Hajime’s knuckles brush against his thick cock, “I wasn’t fucking around, Iwa-chan. Get the lube.”

Hajime laughs. He can’t help it. He presses a hot kiss to Oikawa’s jaw, muttering, “Love you even when you’re a brat,” and reaches blindly on the floor beside the bed. Oikawa’s legs anchor him, tangled in his own, and he spreads them wide when Hajime sits up.

Hajime can’t help another look. Oikawa stares at him, eyes blazing, one hand clenched in his own sweat-darkened hair and the other pumping his cock. His half-open mouth is wet and red, and when Hajime runs a reverent hand up his thigh he jumps like he’s been shocked.

“You’re too good for me,” Hajime says, unable to stop himself, and Oikawa hisses.

“No, I am perfect for you. Fuck me, Hajime, now.”

Like he’s got a choice in the matter. Hajime slicks his cock, losing the lube down the side of the bed when he’s done. When he hikes Oikawa’s legs up, they clamp around his waist in an instant, heels digging into his spine. He presses a thumb to Oikawa’s hole, feeling the muscle twitch, and lines up his cock.

Oikawa is sucking down air like a bellows, breath fast and damp on Hajime’s ear. Hajime sucks a kiss to Oikawa’s adam’s apple and when he pushes in, slow and forceful, he can feel Oikawa’s moan in his teeth. Perfect, perfect, perfect is right. Oikawa’s back bends like a bow.

A rough-voiced, breathless “fuck” is all Oikawa manages before Hajime finds his mouth again, hungry for him, starving for him, sliding his tongue into Oikawa’s mouth and groaning when Oikawa lets him. He thrusts forward, short, stuttering strokes that bring him deeper each time, forcing little breathy gasps from Oikawa that are nearly as intoxicating as his mouth or his ass or the heat of his chest pressed flush to Hajime’s. One of his hands is buried in Hajime’s hair. The other pumps his cock like he’s on a damn deadline.

“Talk to me,” he pants, just sounding wrecked as Hajime fucks into him again, harder. His cheeks are wet again and Hajime presses his lips to them, breathing sharply against the skin.

“Yeah,” he says, “Yeah.” His thighs ache with the motion of fucking, but he can’t go any softer and he certainly won’t go any slower, not with Oikawa digging his heels in begging wordlessly for more. “Wanna spend every day with you. Wanna wake up with you, and go to sleep with you, and make you happy even when you’re an ass—”

Oikawa laughs unevenly against Hajime’s cheek. He’s clenching around Hajime’s cock like he’s close, his thighs starting to shake against Hajime’s sides. Hajime thrusts harder, a long slide out and then slamming in until the headboard rattles against the wall and Oikawa’s hand feels like a vice in his hair. Sweat pools between their bodies. Precome slides across Oikawa’s stomach.

Hajime is still babbling. “—used to dream about you, always knew you’d be a good fuck but I didn’t even know, you’re amazing, you feel so good, you—hngh, you were made to take my cock—”

Oikawa whines high in his throat and Hajime starts to lose it, hips stuttering. His thighs tense. He could still pull back, try and make this last just a little bit longer, but it’s not going to happen. Oikawa’s eyes are wide as saucers. His hand is at the back of Hajime’s neck, his fingers like brands across the skin.

“Oh, fuck, Tooru,” Hajime gasps, “I’m stupid in love with you, just come.

And so he does.

Oikawa seizes, every muscle tightening as come shoots across his stomach and catches Hajime’s chin, only the whites of his eyes visible through those long brown lashes. His hole tightens almost painfully and Hajime swears and follows him down, pressing his face to the crook of Oikawa’s neck and gulping sweat-scented air as pleasure lights up his nerves. His feet scrabble for purchase on the sheets and don’t find it. When he collapses, they both groan, Oikawa’s cock still pulsing weakly between them.

It takes a hot, starry moment, but finally Hajime pulls out, dragging one last thin whimper from Oikawa, and rolls to the side. Oikawa’s eyes are closed, but when Hajime brushes two knuckles against the wet spots on his cheeks, he turns and catches his eye.

“Can’t I believe I fell for you,” Hajime mutters, feeling his own flush creep towards his ears. He’s not sure he’s supposed to say stuff like that now that the sex is over, but it doesn’t seem to matter.

Oikawa laughs and rolls to face Hajime, grinning like a cat. “Like you ever stood a chance, Iwa-chan,” he says, and fits their mouths together.

 


 

The next morning, when Hajime’s blood pressure hits a peak and he aims a second serve for the day right at Oikawa’s head, he hears Kindaichi on the sidelines.

“—Captain and Vice-Captain seem… punchier today? To you guys?”

Oikawa drags an eyelid down, sticking his tongue out from the other side of the net. Hajime’s going to strangle him.

Hanamaki’s bored tones. “Oh, you didn’t know? You didn’t know. They fucked last night and this is their aftercare.”

Hajime freezes. The ball in his hands goes bouncing across the parquet.

Matsukawa, sounding tired: “They’re so nice to each other when they fuck they always make up for it by going at each other during practice. I suppose it returns some kind of balance to them, the emotionally-stunted freaks.”

When Hajime finally meets Oikawa’s gaze, it’s brimming with horror. They haven’t really—?

“Oh, wow,” Hanamaki says, voice carrying well. When Hajime finally turns to look at him, he’s got an arm around Kindaichi’s shoulders, pointing to Hajime and Oikawa’s burning faces like a ranger on safari. “Oh, wow, look. They didn’t know either.”

“We’re not—” Oikawa starts, sounding strangled, but Matsukawa cuts him off.

“Oh my god,” he says, standing from the bench. His hands are in the air. “Oh my god.”

“Look, Kindaichi, they thought this was normal,” Hanamaki says. Kindaichi, still trapped by his senior’s arm, looks frantic and full of regret. “They thought this wasn’t a sex thing.”

Oikawa is red as a tomato, fingers digging pits into his volleyball. Hajime is going to strangle someone before this day is over and he isn't picky about who. “Hanamaki, I swear to god this isn’t—”

“It’s a sex thing, Kindaichi,” Hanamki says, unperturbed. “Look at their faces. You’re watching sex right now.”

Kindaichi looks near death. Oikawa is at a rare loss for words. Matsukawa hits the far wall and doubles back.

“Oh my god?” he says, marking a lap around the benches. Hanamaki nods sagely. “Oh my god.”

“Oh my god,” Oikawa says, and forgoes the volleyball to drop his face in his hands.

“Oh my god,” says Kindaichi, and there aren’t any lockers nearby so Hajime ducks the net and punches Matsukawa instead.